


mad as birds

by dustofwarfare



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Background Character Death, Background Relationships, Black Eagle Strike Force Felix, Canon-Typical Violence, Crimson Flower Route, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route Spoilers, Jeritza is the worst instructor, M/M, Patricide, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), References to Canon Events, War, even milder breathplay, it's neither character in the story, recruited!Felix, talk of murder as foreplay (kind of), very mild bloodplay, weird but consensual kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:22:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22440274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustofwarfare/pseuds/dustofwarfare
Summary: The Duke is dead,Felix thinks. The air around him stinks of death and black magic, copper and sulfur and despair.Long live the Duke.-------------------------------------At the battle for Arianrhod, Felix kills his father.Afterward, unable to find solace in sleep, he spars his former fencing professor.It gets weird.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Jeritza von Hrym
Comments: 7
Kudos: 99





	mad as birds

**Author's Note:**

> This was going to be porny but it ended up weird?? It's the Death Knight, okay, blame Jeritza. Also it's his fault I use the same metaphor over and over again, oops. 
> 
> There's Ferdibert and Bylitza all up in here, and some very subtle Dimilex if you squint, so. 
> 
> M rating for angst and disturbing imagery, mostly. And also, like. Jeritza kissing anyone is basically an M-rating right there. 
> 
> Title from the Dylan Thomas poem "Love in the Asylum" :)

At Arianrhod, practically at the gates of the city itself, Felix kills his father. 

He doesn’t _want_ to kill Rodrigue, it isn’t that. But he doesn’t think it’s fair to let anyone else do it, either. This is a battle, and Rodrigue is one more enemy, one more thing he needs to eliminate. That’s all. 

Felix knows what war is. What it requires to win it. Wars of attrition are terrible, awful things but they are successful, in the end. 

So when the time comes, it is Felix that strides forward with his blade drawn to face the enemy commander who is, secondary to that, his father. Felix, who listens without flinching as his father swears to right Felix’s failure _._ Because he’s always known, hasn’t he, that his father wishes it was _Felix_ that died that day in Duscur? His sensitive, smaller second son, who used to cry and who was afraid of the dark? 

_You thought it was an honor that my brother died for your beloved Lambert. Let’s see if you think it’s an honor to die for his mad boar of a son._

Felix says nothing when his blade strikes home. He watches, dispassionate, as Rodrigue -- sprawled on his back and bleeding out on the stones -- tries to say something. It’s a rattle, nearly imperceptible, but Felix hears the soft whisper of the boar’s name and anything that might have been regret dies like a wilted flower.

 _The Duke is dead_ , Felix thinks. The air around him stinks of death and black magic, copper and sulfur and despair. _Long live the Duke._

With that, Felix steps over his father’s body and heads into the city. There is still a battle left to fight. Still a war to be won. One commander down won’t change that. 

If only it were that easy. 

***

Felix can’t sleep. He gives up at about two in the morning, shoving his feet into his boots and halfheartedly tying his hair up, grabbing a light coat and ducking out of his room. The same one he slept in as a student, first as a Blue Lion and then after his transfer. 

He can hear sounds coming from the hallway as he walks, which is unsurprising. The victory celebration that night was subdued, given how many former classmates they’d had to kill to achieve it, but that didn’t mean people went to bed alone. Grief was sometimes a powerful aphrodisiac, or so Felix has heard. At least it is for Sylvain, who -- if the sounds Felix hears as he passes by his old friend’s room are any indication -- is drowning his sorrows with the help of a couple amenable soldiers. At least two. 

Felix rolls his eyes and moves along. There’s a light on in Rhea’s old reception room, but Felix doesn’t see anyone moving around in there. Probably Hubert in Seteth’s old office, making plans. Or perhaps he’s practicing being tall and imposing, or laughing like a particularly malevolent crow.

Except that, when he’s finally outside and aimlessly wandering, Felix hears something that sounds like someone being fucked to within an inch of their life near the stables. There are sharp tight cries and a soft chuckle that could belong to a malignant avian of some kind -- and, ah, it would seem Hubert is getting up to something _else_ tonight. Ferdinand and Hubert have that whole _thing_ that they think no one knows about, except for how they’re obvious as fuck about how their barbed little verbal altercations are clearly foreplay. 

Felix has as much interest in romance as he does in choir practice, but he’s not _blind_. 

He skirts past the stables -- knowing that Hubert and Ferdinand are fucking is one thing, seeing it is another -- and heads into a small garden. There’s no sounds that suggest people are rolling around and fucking on the flowers, but he _does_ hear someone crying and another softer voice offering comfort. The softer voice belongs to Mercedes, and Felix does not know who she is comforting but it sounds like maybe Dorothea. 

Dorothea and Ingrid had been friends in school. Felix does not want to think about Ingrid, who was offered clemency and refused by spitting at the face of the imperial soldier who offered it on the Emperor’s behalf, before running the soldier through with her lance. 

It was Hubert that ended Ingrid’s life in the battle. Felix had been fighting near Sylvain, had seen the dark magic burst like a star in the sky and engulf Ingrid’s pegasus. Felix heard Sylvain scream like _he_ was the one hit by Hubert’s magic when he saw Ingrid fall, but there was nothing to be done. 

She’d made her choice. They all had. Sylvain might have screamed but he didn’t stop fighting. 

Felix ends up in the training room, and is relieved to see no one is there. The professor has an odd and completely creepy way of finding Felix even when he doesn’t want to be found, and that includes his sometimes late-night training sessions. The last thing he needs is Byleth’s calm stare and endless questions or, worse, attempts to fix him tea and give him trinkets. 

Felix grabs a sword and uses a spell to light the torches around the perimeter of the training area. He breathes in, out, and then leaps forward, brandishing his sword at the training dummy. The sword goes through to the post. Felix thinks about his father, breathing hard, fingers tight around the hilt. He yanks it free, steps back, begins again. And again. 

“Your footwork is sloppy.” 

It takes a lot to startle Felix, but the sound of that dreamy voice filtering out of the dark manages to do so. Felix whirls, heart pounding more from the surprise of not being alone than any actual exertion, and sees the half-shadowed face of his old fencing professor, Jeritza von Hrym. 

His old fencing professor, Mercedes’ younger brother, and _the Death Knight._

Back when Jeritza had been a professor, Felix had sparred with him often. He was decidedly lackluster when it came to actual instruction, but Felix found him at least a worthy opponent with whom to match blades. He’d learned a lot from him, in fact. 

Now, he fights beside Jeritza, watching him swing that murderous scythe with quiet intensity, mowing down enemies even if he doesn’t seem to have any real feelings about it one way or the other. 

_Lucky bastard._ What Felix wouldn’t give for that emptiness, that calm quiet _nothing_ in his head. 

“I’m still warming up,” Felix says, shrugging. He wonders what Jeritza is doing here. “You want to spar?” 

“Hmm.” Jeritza steps forward, so he’s in the light. “Why would I?”

Felix scowls at the question. “Because you’re here? Or did you just show up to stand around and stare into the dark.” It isn't really a question.

Jeritza has a similar tendency as the professor not to blink. “I dislike the ritual of a post-battle gathering that everyone seems so fond of.”

“You mean you don’t like parties,” Felix says, flatly.

“I suppose I do not,” Jeritza says, sounding bored. “If that is what you call it, a party.” 

“Not me,” Felix scoffs. “I don’t like them, either.” He studies his old professor. “Are you waiting for someone, then?” He’s seen the way Jeritza stares at the professor. Like he’s something that Jeritza wants to fuck, kill or have for dinner. Maybe all three. Not unlike the way Hubert watches Ferdinand, sometimes. 

“No.” Jeritza walks closer. He stares at Felix. 

Felix stares back. Jeritza is so weird. It might have been a secret he was the Death Knight, but it wasn’t that much of a _surprise_. “So do you want to spar or not? If not, leave me alone.” 

“I did not like teaching. Most of you were hopeless. It was hard not to kill you.” This isn’t an answer. 

“Yeah, well,” Felix mutters. “I know that feeling. I felt the same about my classmates, and for the last time, do you want to spar or not?” His fingers twitch. Jeritza is an opponent that will give him a workout that might help him sleep. “If not, you can at least tell me what I’m doing wrong.” 

“The Death Knight dislikes when I stay my blade. It prefers when I am able to kill.” 

“I can’t stop you from trying,” Felix says, boot tapping on the dust. Adrenaline spikes through him. This is stupid, probably. He still wants to do it. 

“All right.” Jeritza's voice, already weird and dreamy, goes even more far-off and strange. “I shall try not to kill you.” He bows. 

Felix bows back. “Great. Get your sword.” 

*** 

Felix is thoroughly trounced in their spar. 

Jeritza fights with all the passion of a cold dead fish, his gaze somewhere to Felix’s right and his expression as blank as the training dummy. Felix doesn’t care, and in fact, finds it helps him concentrate; Jeritza is also fast, brutal, and knocks him down three times before Felix even figures out how he fights. 

“You didn’t -- fight like this -- during class,” Felix says, gasping a bit for breath, hands on his knees. His muscles ache. It feels good. 

“No.” Jeritza barely looks winded. “Are you done, then?” 

“No way,” Felix says, straightening up. “This is what I want.” He raises his sword, sweat stinging his eyes and eager for more. “Again, let’s go.” 

Jeritza’s eyes burn bright and cold, and he nods, once. “Very well. If you insist.” 

Felix lasts a little longer during their second match, but not much. Jeritza’s fast, and Felix ends up with bruises from the training sword he probably hasn’t had since he was fifteen. He also gets a pommel to the face and gets a bloody lip, after trying a fancy -- and ultimately futile -- move once Jeritza disarmed him. 

Felix feels it when his lip splits, his mouth filling with blood. The taste is sickening and familiar, and he pushes his sweaty hair out of his face and spits on the dirt floor. “Again.” 

Jeritza sighs like Linhardt when he’s asked to give up his nap for a war council meeting, but he steps in front of Felix and raises his sword. Their third bout is Felix’s best, with the taste of blood still an echo in his mouth and sweat stinging his eyes, body bruised up from combat and the strikes of Jeritza’s wooden sword. 

If Jeritza had a real sword, or even his scythe, Felix would be dead four times over. It’s infuriating but it’s also inspiring, makes him fight harder. This is good, this is what he needs. He will get _better_ and in the end, it will all be worth it. 

His blood is roaring in his ears when Jeritza spins slightly and knocks him over with ease. Felix falls to his ass in a heap and pants, hard, his whole body aching and sore. It’s _perfect._ “Give me. A minute,” he gasps, struggling to get enough air in his lungs to stand up. “Again.” 

Outside, he dimly hears the bells strike four in the morning. It will be dawn soon. 

“There is no sport in this,” Jeritza says, staring down his nose at him. He does, in this light, look quite a bit like Mercedes. “But at least you did not bore me.” He gives a little courtly bow. Felix forgot, in the heat of things, that Jeritza is a noble. “You did not complain or ask for mercy.” 

Felix laughs. The sound is harsh and awful, and his mouth still tastes like blood. “Never. Glad I didn’t disappoint.” 

“I didn’t say that,” Jeritza says, making no move to help him up. “But you lived. You would not have, if it had been a real battle.” 

“Then let’s do it for real,” Felix snarls, the insult giving him the push he needs to leap to his feet. He can barely stand up, tiredness and exhaustion burning behind his eyes, the battle fatigue winning out over his control of his limbs. 

And his common sense, apparently. Jeritza is not his professor. Jeritza is _the Death Knight._ Jeritza is also half-sane on a good day, and only promised not to _try_ and kill him. It won’t be very hard, if they use real weapons. 

“You are foolish and will end up dead,” Jeritza informs him. 

“Won’t we all?” Felix crosses his arms over his chest. Even he knows he’s in no shape to keep fighting. 

Jeritza smiles. The expression is wrong in so many ways, and it chills Felix like going for a swim in early spring back home. “Is that what you want?” 

Felix shakes his head. “I want to get better, not die.” 

“What brought you seeking the sword, instead of sleep?” Jeritza asks, as if it just now occurred to him to ask. 

And Felix, who would have responded to literally _anyone else_ with the same thing -- _I am here to fight a war, training keeps me alive_ \-- says, without thinking, “I killed my father today. Yesterday.” It still feels like _today,_ to Felix. Maybe it always will. 

Saying it sounds like the blood in his mouth tastes. 

Jeritza smiles again, but this time it isn’t quite so empty. His eyes are focused on Felix now, and maybe it was better when they weren’t. “I killed my father, too.” He walks forward, slowly, and Felix wonders if they’re going to fight again. 

“You’re very pretty,” Jeritza says, staring down at him. 

Felix is not an easy man to surprise, but that manages it. “Excuse me?” 

“Oh,” Jeritza says, blinking, as if he’s surprised he said that out loud. “You are. Don’t you know that?” 

“I’m not _pretty,_ ” Felix says, scowling. He’s exhausted and sweaty and has dirt all over him, and his mouth is bloody. His hand comes up to touch his mouth, and yeah, there’s still blood there. 

_You know, you could get a date if you’d lose the attitude, Felix,_ Sylvain said to him, once. _Plenty of people are into your whole broody swordsman thing. If you'd just, y'know. Smile a little, maybe._

Jeritza tilts his head. “I wouldn’t have thought that. If you didn’t kill your father. And if there wasn’t blood on your mouth.” 

This guy is fucked in the head, for real. Felix scoffs. But he doesn’t leave, and he doesn’t move as Jeritza moves closer still. He just stays perfectly in place as Jeritza reaches out and rubs his gloved fingers over Felix’s lower lip. 

There’s a low throb of something like arousal as he watches Jeritza lift his hand and study it -- then lick at the smear of blood on his fingers. It’s disturbing and attractive, but Felix can’t say he understands why he’d think that. Maybe it’s the utter lack of regard that Jeritza wears like a cloak, his dreaminess and disinterest at the other end of the spectrum as the professor. 

Even Felix can tell that Byleth feels things, just -- and Felix likes to think he’s something of an expert on this, himself -- isn’t one to let it show. Jeritza seems to live in some perpetual dark well, all deep dark coldness with no hint of light. 

It’s sort of a relief. Felix feels his shoulders ease even as his breathing picks up. He doesn’t know in that moment if he wants to fight Jeritza some more, _be_ Jeritza, or sink into the _coldness_ of him and drown. 

Jeritza’s eyes are the same color as Mercedes, sky-blue, but where hers are always warm and kind, Jeritza’s are chilly and blessedly empty. Felix studies him, aware he’s staring and making more eye contact than he usually does. 

“What is it?” Jeritza asks, in that same soft, dreamy voice. That’s the thing he shares the most with his sister, Felix thinks. As if they both grew up careful to keep quiet, to not rouse a sleeping monster. “You’re staring at me.” 

“I -- do you remember me, from before?” It’s not like Felix to ask these sorts of questions, or to care about the answer. "When I was your student." It seems like so long ago. 

Jeritza nods. “Yes.” A delicate pause. “The Death Knight remembers you, too.” 

….okay, what is Felix supposed to do with that? There’s a reason the only person who ever seems to care about going to tea with Jeritza is the professor. His conversational skills are disturbing, though maybe it’s nice someone is worse at small talk than Felix. “I guess that’s...all right.” 

Jeritza nods. “The Death Knight sees you on the field of battle. Your blade strikes true. You fight like you want to kill.” He reaches out and drags his leather-clad fingers over Felix’s throat. “Do you enjoy it?” 

Felix doesn’t enjoy it. He scowls, but he doesn’t push Jeritza’s hand away -- the touch is so light, like a butterfly, but he feels it as heavy as any of the hits Jeritza landed on him, earlier, while they sparred. “I enjoy battle. I enjoy testing myself against strong opponents. And I like to win. Just because I hate chivalry doesn’t mean I’m a monster. I fight to protect the weak.” 

If Felix was not exhausted, sore, bloody and tired, he might not have said any of that out loud. It’s an argument he’s tired of having, though admittedly, he’s usually having it with Ingrid --

Or. He usually _had_ with Ingrid. Felix is about to shove Jeritza’s arm away and retreat to his rooms when suddenly Jeritza’s hand settles on his throat and he _squeezes_ \-- not hard enough to choke, but definitely enough to get Felix’s sudden attention. 

“Tell me,” Jeritza says, staring at him, cold eyes empty and reflective as the blade of Felix’s favorite silver sword. “Tell me what it felt like to kill your father.” His gloved thumb rubs at the side of Felix’s neck. “Tell me some part of you did not enjoy it.” 

_It felt awful. I’m glad it is over._ Felix’s breath is caught and he feels like he’s in danger, despite how easy it would be to break Jeritza’s hold -- in fact, he’s fairly sure a stern, _let me go_ would have Jeritza dropping his hand immediately. 

The danger is that Felix isn’t sure he wants Jeritza to let go. “I was glad when it was over.” 

“When I killed my father, I enjoyed it. The way he screamed. Begged. Sobbed and cried.” Jeritza smiles, sweet like the kind of poison that kills you before you even know it’s there. 

“Um,” says Felix. "Okay." He feels a little out of his depth, here. No one he knows talks like this. 

“He was going to marry my sister. You know her, yes? She is here. She heals, while I kill.” 

“I -- yes, I’ve known her for years,” Felix manages. Talking about someone as sweet and kind as Mercedes while letting Jeritza stroke his throat is -- unsettling. Jeritza's strange shift between reality and whatever dark fantasy he spends most of his time in is also equally as unsettling. 

“And a father can’t marry his own daughter,” Felix adds, because contrariness is as much as a part of him as breathing. 

Jeritza pets his throat some more, so close now that when he tilts his head down, loose strands of his hair fall forward and tickle Felix’s face. It’s strangely exhilarating to be this close to the _Death Knight_. Felix can’t imagine very many people get the chance. 

“He was my father, not Mercedes’.” Jeritza’s eerie, blank expression eases for just a moment, as if saying his sister’s name is some catalyst that brings a bit more life to his eyes. “But he would have taken her and forced a child upon her. For a Crest.” 

Well, at least it reminds Felix why he joined up with Edelgard; his hatred of the code of chivalry aside, the whole bullshit with Crests has only ever caused anyone pain. “Sounds like he deserved it.” Felix is not going to spare any sympathy for someone who would have hurt Mercedes. 

“Yes.” Jeritza tilts Felix’s head back, his hand sliding up into Felix’s hair and fingers lacing into his haphazard ponytail. He leans in and presses his mouth against the heartbeat of Felix’s pulse. “And I still _liked_ it. Killing him. It _delighted_ me.” 

Felix breathes out, hands fisted at his sides. Jeritza licks the side of his neck and Felix shudders, caught between revulsion and some sick attraction he can’t fight. He thinks about Dimitri in Remire, and before that -- putting down that rebellion in Western Faerghus. The first time Felix saw what Dimitri had truly become. 

“I do not think it delights you,” Jeritza continues, breath warm as spilled blood against Felix’s neck. “Do you wish it did?” 

Felix draws a shaky breath. _Would it make it easier, if I did? Then maybe._ He’s not going to say that, he knows it isn’t true. Isn’t that why he hates Dimitri so much? “No.” 

Jeritza laughs softly. “We could teach you how to like it.” He licks, again, and then bites -- very gently -- at Felix’s pulse. “We have seen you fight. We do not think you have that far to go, before you could be one of us. Revel, as we do.” Jeritza’s other hand settles at Felix’s waist, gentle, he’s so _gentle,_ even his hand in Felix’s hair isn’t tight or pulling. “Shall we make you like it, pretty lion?” Jeritza raises his head, and his eyes are half-mad and wild, a hint of something red amidst the glacial blue -- like a drop of blood in the purest of water, or spilled on pristine white snow. “Say _yes_.” 

Jeritza kisses him, and it’s soft, almost sweet. Hardly even a kiss, just his mouth against Felix’s, that strange sad sigh. “It makes it better, you shall see.” His hand strokes down Felix’s hair, his other hand drawing him closer. “It makes it _all_ so much better. Let me show you. Then you will know, and we can _play_ , little lion, on the battlefield. Oh, how we could _play_." 

Felix stands there, wide-eyed, unsure of what he’s supposed to do and thinking about what a mistake this was. Except that dark desire that he can't ignore, the one that says _if you have to do this, fight this war, maybe it's better to be utterly mad when you do it._

No. _No._ He will not become the thing he hated in Dimitri. At least Jeritza, for all his madness, is aware he's a monster and doesn't try to hide it.

“Jeritza,” Felix says, carefully, lifting a hand to place it carefully -- very, very carefully -- on Jeritza’s shoulder. “I need to go.”

Because isn’t there some part of him -- some awful, aching part -- that wants to say _yes_? 

_Fine, teach me to like it so that I can sleep without dreams. It has to be better than this._

“Hmm?” Jeritza pulls back, then takes Felix’s face in both his hands. He smiles. “Was that a yes?” 

“No. I should go to bed. It’s almost dawn.” 

“Yes. Another day closer to a new battle.” Jeritza doesn’t let him go. “Or would you like me to kill you? I bet you would look very pretty, little lion, struck through with my scythe and trembling, bloody and suffering on your knees for me. Would you beg me? To let you live, or to end it quickly?” 

That gets Jeritza’s breathing coming faster, and that’s...disturbing. Something else, maybe, but Felix needs to leave and go to bed, this entire thing is just too -- too much. 

“No,” Felix says, because he can’t resist responding to that. “ _Never_. I will never beg, either for my life or a quick death.” Felix doesn’t think his brother begged, at the end. His father certainly didn’t. Felix doesn’t put any stock in the dead but he can do that much for the family name he’s dragged summarily through the mud. He can die like a soldier, a warrior. 

“I would enjoy making you beg me,” Jeritza says, sighing, both his thumbs stroking Felix’s face. “Do you understand, little lion?” 

“Don’t call me that,” Felix says, and now _he_ reaches up and grabs -- much less gently -- at Jeritza’s ponytail. “I’m not a lion anymore. I haven’t been one for years.” That was all in the past, his early days at the Academy, back when Felix thought maybe Dimitri wasn’t as lost as he’d feared. Before Remire Village, before Felix knew for sure he was gone and it was all too late. 

Felix leans up and _bites_ Jeritza, on the mouth. “My fucking name is Felix. You’re not murdering me and if we’re done here, I’m going to bed.” 

“Your name does not matter to me.” Jeritza draws him close and kisses him, long and lingering, and Felix can taste the blood from his bite. Jeritza pulls away and rests his forehead against Felix’s. “Go, now, before I throw you on the ground and have my way with you.” 

Felix stares at him. “You mean fuck me, or murder me?” As terrible of an idea as it is, Felix might let him do the first. If he was sure that was what Jeritza wanted, and honestly, he _isn’t_ sure at all. Maybe that’s why he wants to try. Maybe Felix is just as fucked in the head as Jeritza. As Dimi--

_No._

Jeritza smiles a bloodstained smile, and he does not look like a man. The shadow of the monster rides him like cavalry. He strokes Felix’s throat, again, gentle and terrible. “Which do you think?” 

_That it’s definitely time for me to go, because I’m pretty sure it’s not fuck me and I’m not that crazy -- yet._ Felix shoves Jeritza’s hand away and backs up, his hackles raised, his mouth still tasting faintly of blood. But he sketches out a brief bow -- Jeritza _did_ spar with him, it’s only polite -- although Felix never lowers his eyes. It isn’t good to show weakness to a predator. 

Jeritza just stands there, still and calm, like he will simply fade with the shadows come morning. 

Just before Felix makes it to the door, Jeritza speaks. “When you carve your heart out, little lion, there will always be something waiting, some monster searching for the empty places to curl up and sleep. Do not raise your blade to me again unless yours has roused from its slumber.” 

Felix pauses, then inclines his head before leaving the training area. He understands the warning; you can either hate the necessity of killing, or revel in it. There is no place for indifference in warfare. All Felix wants is stop feeling, but that’s never going to happen. 

How odd, that the best instruction Felix has received in months has come from his displaced former professor, who either just threatened to murder him or fuck him on the ground. Felix would laugh if he had the energy. 

Felix goes back to his room, ignoring the perpetually early risers stirring around the grounds, and fighting the tiredness dragging like weights on his eyelids. He strips once he gets to his room, knowing he needs to bathe but not having the energy to do much beyond chug a voluntary and then a bottle of water before falling onto his bed. 

Alone, and silent, Felix cries for his father. For Ingrid. For Dimitri. For all of them. He hates himself for it, but maybe that’s better than the alternative. 

In a few hours he will get up, bathe, take up his blade. Talk strategy, ride once more to war wherever it takes him. But tonight he will take Jeritza’s warning to heart, because contrary to what anyone might think, Felix still has one. For now. 

**Author's Note:**

> byleth: /felix please leave seducing the death knight to me okay 
> 
> felix: /.....yeah he's all yours 
> 
> ___________
> 
> will i ever write fire emblem fic where i don't use 'murder as foreplay' tag?? tune in next time i guess
> 
> also pls come talk to me on twitter about this game i'm obsessed [i am here hello say hi!](https://twitter.com/dustofwarfare)


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